


Chains

by Reavv



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson is simply an idle curiosity. It’s not like he’s going to get close to the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In response to the fact that there's tons of Female Inquisitor x Samson, but not really any Male Inquisitor x Samson

It starts, like most things, rather innocently. Adaar see’s the man on the judgement floor, and can’t find in him the monster they where fighting. During his many years as a mercenary, and the few but intense months as herald, he has seen evil, has seen the masks it wears. All the justifications and self-righteous disguises it dons. And yet, although the story of Samson has all the ingredients for another throat to cut, Adaar’s first response is not one of condemnation. No, all he thinks about in that moment is that someone really needs to give the man a decent meal. Something fattening. A sweet roast maybe.

The thought surprise’s him. Although not a cruel man by nature, Adaar has become somewhat hardened throughout the years. The whole inquisition business hasn’t helped in that respect, ruthlessness comes easy now. 

Still, he tries to be fair. He listens to Cullen recite the list of offenses, and tries to look attentive. Part of him wishes to enact the justice Samson, and probably the rest of Thedas’, think’s he deserves, but another part is already calculating what an advantage having Corypheus’ general would be. Not to mention the sudden desire to cook the man a meal. 

When it comes time for him to make his judgement, he pretends a moment of consideration, and then slides his eyes towards Cullen. The man was positively vibrating with repressed emotion. 

“You once served a cause greater than yourself, and perhaps you can once again. Samson, I here by hand you over to commander Cullen and archanist Dagna.” 

\--

“Good evening Samson, Dagna.” Adaar watches’ the man startle where he sits on the examination table. Dagna on the other hand, simply smiles in his direction before returning to where she is inspecting a patch of irritated skin. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was aware of his lurking since the beginning. 

“Inquisitor! Here for another enchantment? I’ll be with you in just a moment; I just need a few more samples. There’s been some odd interference with the equipment; I think the resonance is screwing everything off just a smudge.” Dagna trails off, muttering under her breath about lyrium resonance and magnetic metals. 

Adaar hulls himself up on a crate and settles in to watch. Although his eyes track Dagna’s progress, he can’t help but glance towards the man on the table. Samson twitches away from his gaze, but doesn’t say anything. He seems more preoccupied with watching Dagna warily. Smart man. Most people discount Dagna for her size and cuteness, but she’s more dangerous than half the castle put together. 

It says a lot for Samson that he recognises that. And that, well, that just makes Adaar curious.   
\--  
After that, he makes sure he pays attention. Although he has a lot of information from Leliana’s reports and the whole situation with Maddox, none of that really touches on who Samson actually is, just what he’s done. 

And although you can judge a lot by a man’s actions, they aren’t the sum of ones parts either. Adaar should know. 

He doesn’t linger too much on why exactly it’s important to uncover the man behind the red lyrium armour, but he figures if anyone asks he can hide behind the whole “know your enemy” thing. 

So he watches. He spends a lot of time in the undercroft anyways; talking with Dagna and fine-tuning his gear. Now he simply make’s sure to time it when he knows Samson will be there. And he checks in on Cullen daily anyways, so might as well check in on Samson then too. Saves a trip down into the dungeon at least. 

It’s enough though that Cullen takes him aside one day. 

“You know you don’t have to chaperone me like this, Inquisitor” He says, a wry tilt to his lips. 

“I know I might not have instilled that much confidence in my self control in the past, but I would not act unprofessional towards the prisoner.” Adaar takes a few moments to blink in confusion at the commander’s face. He absently takes note of the omission of Samson’s name. Just prisoner. 

“Control? What do you – Oh. You’re talking about the lyrium episode earlier.” Adaar says, absent minded. He watches as Cullen flinches. He continues before more vague guilt can start bubbling up from the man. 

“I wasn’t worried that you would take advantage, or neglect your duties or something.” He chews on the inside of his cheek as it’s Cullen’s turn to be confused. 

“Then why?” Cullen says, rubbing the back of his neck. A rather unsubtle tick of his, Adaar has noticed. 

Adaar shrugs. 

“I don’t actually know.”

\--

And that’s the crux of the matter really. Samson should be everything Adaar hates. An ex-templar still emotionally tied enough to his old order to take over and try to lead them. Someone who, knowingly or not, used the people under him and put things into motion that destroyed countless lives. The one partly responsible for Haven’s demise. 

And yet, there must have been something in him for Maddox and his men to give their lives so loyally. It seems odd that then same man who would march an army into battle for an insane darkspawn would be the same man who once smuggled mages out of Kirkwall. Who was cast out of the Templar order for letters, of all things.

But perhaps that’s the point, Adaar thinks. Maybe he can be both. Both villain and victim. 

Fade knows Adaar sometimes feels like he is two things at once too; Herald to the people out there and prisoner of circumstance to himself. 

It doesn’t really matter though, Adaar decides. Samson is simply an idle curiosity. It’s not like he’s going to get close to the man. 

\--

It becomes a thing. In between missions and the mad scramble to prepare for Corypheus, Adaar wanders down to the undercroft or along the walls to Cullen’s office. He hasn’t taken that last step and visited Samson when he’s alone in his cell, although he has had idle thoughts to do so. 

In fact, he hasn’t even really spoken with the man, outside of some simple questions about Corypheus and the red lyrium. It turns out that Samson outside of his armour is a quiet man, more prone to exhausted glaring then conversation. 

For some reason this bothers him. He can’t help notice how the man has gained almost no weight, a slight and diminished figure against Skyhold’s grandeur, and it itches’ under his skin. 

Why that is, he isn’t all that sure. 

He’s not the only one that’s noticed Samson’s poor health though, and so he’s not alone when he finally decides to do something about it. 

“The lyrium addiction is a complication of course; his metabolism is all mixed up. Not to mention the red stuff has really weird effects on the body, I’m not surprised he has trouble gaining any bulk.” Dagna says, shuffling the deck with an expert hand. Adaar almost doesn’t even see her slip a few cards up her sleeve. 

“It all taste’s like ash, dusty like his mind on the blue, a fog, a mist, a choking smoke.” Is Cole’s contribution, watching Dagna’s hands intently. He’s got his chin on the table, eyes unwavering, although at the angle of his hat Adaar isn’t even sure how he’s seeing much of anything. He’s head doesn’t even move as Dagna set’s about the dealing the cards, although Adaar can tell he’s watching them somehow. 

“So more food isn’t going to help?” Adaar finally asks, after picking up his hand and smothering a grimace at it. It seems like Dagna is either getting sloppier at cheating or his luck is just really running out.

“Oh the food will probably help some, but only if his body can actually use it. He probably isn’t breaking down the energy he would normally get out of it, so no matter how much he eats he’s only getting a reduced energy intake from it. It’s like that with dependencies sometimes; the body craves something too much to function like it should.” Dagna says, nonchalantly switching one of her cards for one in her sleeve. Adaar raises an eyebrow in her direction, to which she only shrugs. 

“His body has forgotten” Cole says, pushing a single coin into the middle of the table. He hasn’t even looked at his cards. 

“So what,” Adaar says, adding his own coin to the pot. “How do you make someone’s body remember how to use the food you feed it?” 

Cole’s head lifts a little in his direction. 

“It’s harder to make them remember than it is to make them forget” He says, snatching one of the cards Dagna had just been about to swap. He tucks it into his own hand. Dagna doesn’t even pause in slipping another one in its place. 

Adaar tries to remember why he ever plays cards with these two unrepentant cheats, and then remembers that he currently has 4 different sets of face cards tucked into his jacket, in easy reach if he feels like reaching back to scratch his neck. 

“It’s a little bit of a puzzle really. For his body to recover you have to have a mind willing to recover as well, but it’s difficult for that to recover while the body is still hurting. I love puzzles.” Dagna says, flicking a coin into the steadily growing pot. 

“A two pronged attack then?” Adaar asks. 

“Hmm possible. I need to do some more tests and see if the treatment I’m developing works. But I have no idea how you make a grumpy pants like Samson happy” She says, smacking Cole’s hand where it’s trying to snag one of her other cards. Obviously not one she can replace then. Adaar frowns down at his own hand. For some reasons he has 5 Divines. The deck only has 3. 

“A place, a home, somewhere to belong. Stand tall, don’t break, the rivers wash dignity away. He feels caught like a fly, drowning.” Cole says into his cards, finally looking at them. He appears to have 3 more than he should. 

“He’s probably lonely” Says Dagna. “He’s so quiet. He never does anything” 

“Yeah, I have an idea of what you mean. The most animated I’ve seen him has been when he’s arguing with Cullen, and that can’t be healthy. If it weren’t for the fact that I know both of them need it, I would have left him solely in your capable hands” Adaar replies, throwing his cards down. The two others follow suit, and it’s a quick count to determine that Dagna won that round. Cole would have won, if it weren’t for the fact that he somehow seemed to have been playing with cards from a completely different deck. 

Adaar stares at it in slight bemusement. He doesn’t even recognise the set. 

Dagna chuckles as she racks in the gold, adding it to the neat pile she has on her side. 

“He misses the city of chains.” Cole says, laying his chin back on the table. 

Adaar has to think about that for a second. 

“Kirkwall? Why would he miss that?” Kirkwall was the place where he was betrayed by the Templars, and supposedly a cesspool to begin with. Adaar couldn’t imagine missing that. 

“It was sharp, but it was his” Cole says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite as long as I was hoping it would get, but hey, it's an update

They leave the cards where they land, the money untouched. Adaar gathers up his people in his mind, counting the ways they have made the cold stone of Skyhold home. He feel’s the hole each of them have carved into it like a sore tooth, relief and pain mixed up in what it means to him.

He thinks he loves each and everyone of them, from Cassandra’s stern but fair countenance to Dorian’s masks and distractions, from Varric’s smiles and stories to Vivienne’s cold but fond magic.

His experience with homes has been spotty and thin. It used to be with his fellow mercenaries, but the threat of losing them at any point soured any attachment he could cobble together.

Before that, a home would have been a thing his parents painstakingly figured out. But it was the blind leading the blind, and escaping the Qun does not make for easy bed fellows.

He drag’s his hand’s against the rough stone as he climbs to his rooms.

How does one make a home?

\--  
So there isn’t really a manual for “The Care and Feeding of your Favourite Prisoner”, but Adaar figures if there was the first step would probably talk about the issue of choice. Samson reminds him somewhat of a feral cat, wary and guarded, but if left alone, willing to creep closer to snatch the unguarded fish. That means giving him the option of food without making it look like someone is actually giving him the option of food.

It probably doesn’t help that Samson hasn’t had much choice in his life so far. Even those years untethered to the order he was restricted by his addiction and poverty.

Which really just highlights how strongly Adaar wants to give him that ability.

That said, years as a mercenary has taught Adaar a little about broken men and the issues of command. He can’t rightly expect Samson to trust him, considering how much power he holds over the man.

He smacks his head against his desk, horns knocking over a stack of papers, and sighs. Logically he knows it’s none of his business. Logic however, has never been one of his fortes.  
He rolls a quill back and forth with one blunt finger and sighs again. If only Samson wasn’t his prisoner. If only Adaar wasn’t some blasted holy order leader with everyone from the empress of Orlais to the young elf servant interested in his business.

He heaves himself off his desk and rights his papers. No use thinking about what could have been. His back cracks as he stretches out of his slouch, and he grimaces. He need’s to make a checklist of sorts or else his thoughts are just going to go around in circles all night. He spares a look of distaste at his desk, headache pre-emptively forming behind his eyes. He really dislikes writing.

 

It takes about half a candle to tell that he’s getting nowhere writing things down. Adaar isn’t a man who’s much good at solving people; it’s why he run’s around looking for fights instead of helping Josephine figure out the political situation.

He has the sudden suspicious that he is hopelessly outmatched. The simple things, he might be capable; it’s a small thing to make sure the kitchen stocks certain kinds of food and make sure Samson has the opportunity to partake, it’s another thing to give a man back his purpose in life. Not to mention giving him back a place to call home.

If this where a mercenary scenario, some sort of raid or mission, he would call in an expert to either teach or lead. But where do you even find someone versed in this kind of situation?

Normally, Adaar tries to reason, when someone needs solving you turn to their companions. Family, or friends. People who are invested and who they can trust. But Samson doesn’t have any of that.

Maybe though, maybe Adaar could step into that role.

\--

Easier said then done of course. But Adaar isn’t the type to sit around once he’s made a decision.

He’s just back from a rompt in the Storm Coast, and he doesn’t have anything he has to do for a good day or two while they restock. He takes the time to grab a few pastries from the kitchen; bundle up a few books in a worn scrap of linen, and nonchalantly wander up to one of the tower roofs.

This one in particular that he has notice Samson will sometimes use after a session with Cullen. Not a particularly meaningful place for the man, so as to not seem as if Adaar is invading, but also far enough removed from the bustle of the fort enough that Samson might not be as on guard.

The he leans his bulk against the rough stone, opens a book, and settles in. It’s a beautifully written adventure story about a world where dragon’s aren’t quite the mindless beast they actually are. The heroine even finds a dragonling that she then raises as a mount. That flies. The romantic in Adaar can’t help get sucked into the fantasy of actually being able to interact with such a large predator; not to mention the silly (but satisfying) comparisons to Qunari origins.

By the time that footsteps slow nearby Adaar is absolutely raptured. The sound of a boot scuffing has him looking up though, and he ends up blinking inquiringly up at Samson. The man isn’t focussing on him though; he’s looking out at the mountains with an indecipherable expression.  
“Sometimes I wonder what you see when you look out at the men you command. Whether you even notice their loyalty or—“ He abruptly tears himself from the stone and levels a bitter expression Adaar’s way.

Adaar closes his book gently, taking the time to think about the words and how they fit in his mouth.

“Or?” He finally settles on.

A twist of Samso’s lips, dark humour bubbling up.

“Or are they just tools and puppet’s, like all the other holy orders out there?”

For a second Adaar has to tear his eyes away from the tension in Samson’s frame. He doesn’t like thinking of how much trust and faith the population of skyhold place in him, most of the time he would rather forget the mark on his hand. Still, the question deserves an honest answer.

“And you?” He says, still looking out at jagged skyline. “What did the men you command mean to you?”

Samson draws himself in to a harsh, vibrating line just in the peripheries of Adaar’s sight. He honestly thinks he might get punched for a second, before Samson abruptly slumps back.

“Their lives where already forfeit.” Adaar turns his head at the quiet words, watching as Samson scrubs at his face.

“They needed someone to give them a purpose, whether they where tools seemed inconsequential in face of that. You might not believe me, Inquisitor, but everything I did was in hopes that I could give them that.” Samson’s voice in rough, a low grating sound that carries a weight in it Adaar is only starting to understand.

“I think, out of anyone, I can understand that drive.” He finally says. “The people seem content to fall into my hands, whether I want it or not. How can I not give them everything I am in face of that?”

Samson snorts.

“You make it sound like you are doing this out of some sort of benevolence. Don’t tell me you actually believe the ‘Andraste’s Chosen’ nonsense.” He says, finally relaxing against the stone properly.

Adaar grins, tipping his horns back to catch the sun.

“I think I’m the wrong man to be anyone’s chosen, least of all’s Andraste. But those people out there? They all have their own wants and desires and beliefs. If, for even a second, I can be what they need, it isn’t benevolence to accept that.” He licks his chapped lips and slowly starts packing his things, with the exception of the food and books.

Adaar drops the bundle at Samson’s elbow, and smiles at his startled look.

“The only puppet here is me.”

\--

He doesn’t run, he tells himself as he leaves Samson’s bewildered expression. A tactical retreat in face of too many emotions. The encounter didn’t quite go the way he wanted, but then again, at least he actually talked to the man this time.

As he walks (not runs) through the castle he passes a frazzled Commander.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen says, stack of papers precariously balanced in his arms.

“No time!” Adaar yell’s back as he turns the corner, boots thumping as he goes. “Im needed in the Hissing Wastes!”

The endless desert is just what he needs to stop the traitorous feelings that are creeping up his throat.

\--

Deep in the castle, a hunched figure turns a worn novel between rough hands. The cover is nondescript, with a stylised dragon symbol and no title, and the pages are yellowed and cracking. There isn’t any messages on the inside cover, no loose pages. The text follows a simple adventure story, silly and meaningless.

Indeed the meaning behind the gift is absolutely meaningless. Samson can’t quite grasp why the Inquisitor left it behind. The food too, makes no sense. It feels like mercy. It feels like a trap.

He put’s the book down delicately, rubbing at his cheek with a weary sigh. There’s a lot right now that he doesn’t understand, the least of which is the appearance of a few pastries and an old book. He doesn’t know what he is doing here, in the room, in the castle, in this land where all he’s done has brought more pain.

The pain in his chest say’s he should have been dead years ago, and the red lyrium in his veins tell him that he doesn’t have much longer even on borrowed time.

And yet, despite the aches, despite the pain, he is irrevocably alive.

“You’re a fool, Raleigh.” He says, teeth barred at his crooked fingers.

“A complete and utter fool.”

\--

Adaar hum’s as he walks through the sand, Bull’s curious look not enough for him to try and tamper down on the bubbling feelings in his chest.

Up ahead Sera is bickering with Dorian, the sun is glinting off of his new armour, and he already has an idea for a new recipe to get the cooks to try.

When he get’s back, he thinks he will ask Cullen what Samson’s favourite foods used to be, and then maybe spar with Cassandra for a little bit. Maybe bother Varric for another book, or drop in on Josephine and see if Blackwall finally got his courage to send anything more than flowers.

He need’s to talk with Morrigan, stock up on potions, track down Cole for another card game.

Mostly though, he thinks on how in that moment when Samson dropped his guard enough to look surprised at Adaar’s gift, how the lines in his forhead smoothed, how his eyes crinkled and his body stayed lax. How in that moment, it felt like Samson forgot where he was and all the whole mess completely.

The image seems burned into his mind, how soft he looked.

There’s a bit of a giddy youth in Adaar’s thoughts. I did that, he thinks.

He want’s to do it again and again and again.

\--

Despite everything, Cullen doesn’t hate Samson. He can’t, he hate’s himself too much that if he were to hate anything more he might break and do something regrettable.

He’s invested though, tuned in the mirror that Samson is to him, so he notices things. It’s his job, but he thinks he would regardless just because of what the man represents to him.

He knows things too, from what reports have said and from their history and from what Samson himself has said in their investigations.

It’s why, the day the Inquisitor runs by him with a flush to his dark skin, and when he looks up at see’s Samson watching, a seed of suspicion starts forming. The man, once a dying dog with no fight, seamed to have sparked something in the ambers of who he used to be. And the inquisitor, a man who can look at his worst enemy and smile.

Dread starts a slow ascent in him as realisation dawns. Both of them are chasing their deaths, breathless, and Cullen just knows that when a collision actually happens, the consequences will be far reaching.

\--

The less said about what Leliana thinks about the whole situation is probably for the best.

\--

A man looks up at the sky in a vast desert and thinks about roasted meat and the smell of people burning.

A man wakes in a terrified sweat, the feeling of hands pulling at his flesh competing with the ghostly feeling of lyrium pushing in his veins.

A woman taps out a beat on a dented sheet of metal, fighting towards another discovery, unconcerned with the burns on her hands as the flame gets too close.

A spirit explores the shape of his being as someone would a missing tooth, finding the ways he fits into the world and the way that shape brushes up against the other people in his head.

A man flips through a meaningless book with all the attention of a general. The grit of his past colours his thoughts as he bites into stale bread.

And far away, the remnants of a man clenches his fist around a vast pool of power, rage and bitterness and defeat forcing his eyes up at the healed sky.

It’s time to end the war.


End file.
